


you took my hand, added a plan

by weird_bird (2weird4)



Series: 2014 Trek Fics [5]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Hurt Jim, Love Confessions, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 17:00:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8675431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2weird4/pseuds/weird_bird
Summary: Jim gets hurt just before the holidays, but he won't have to spend them alone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> No graphic injuries or heavy angst. Just a little quiet moment before Christmas.
> 
> Title from ["My Love"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mtM_cc4SPJI) by Sia.

Christmas Eve-eve and all but the sickest patient have fled sickbay in favor of the Enterprise’s boisterous Christmas bash, the last hurrah before everyone scatters for shore leave.

Up there, it’s all brightness, cheer, and illicit eggnog. But it’s quiet on this deck, dim but for a single string of lazily blinking lights that some thoughtful soul’s strung above the lone occupied biobed. Even Bones, old humbug that he is, has to suppress a fond smile at that.

He isn’t joining the party, of course. Wouldn’t have the heart. This is the only worthwhile way to spend his time, sitting a still sentinel here.  
Except someone else’s had the same idea and although he yelps in surprise when a silhouette shifts, darker than the shadowed pile of presents that surrounds the bed, he knows right away who it is.

“Not joinin’ the party?” Bones sighs as he tugs another chair over to the bedside, seeing as his usual’s been taken.

“Such celebrations are-–”

“Illogical, I know,” he finishes for him wryly. “Tell me another one, Spock. You could use the break, c'mon.” When he sets down the chair, there’s an ominous crinkle of wrapping, as from a crushed gift, and he hurriedly orders the lights to fifteen percent so he can rearrange the mess.

He can see Spock’s profile now, the dark outline of his hand on the sheets. “My mother celebrated Hanukkah rather than Christmas,” Spock explains.

Bones looks up with an awkward cringe, a small package he’d left here on his last shift in hand. “Oh. Hell, I already got you something.” Damn it. Now he’s managed to step on his human side’s toes as well.

Spock raises an eyebrow with as much surprise as Bones has ever seen him show. “I do not consider it cause for offense.”

“Wait to open it ‘til Christmas morning, then,” he says with relief, handing it over.

“In keeping with tradition,” Spock agrees. “One should not do things by halves.” He pauses. “Thank you, Doctor McCoy.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners and he nods. “S'not much, so don’t get too excited.” As if. “You’re welcome,” he says gruffly.

They fall into amiable silence and Bones turns to place a hand on the bed, too, seeking out the bumps of knuckles beneath the sheets.

“Merry Christmas, Jim,” he murmurs, gaze on the quieted planes of his face, the frail eyelids covering vivid blue. 

“He would wish you to participate,” Spock says with startling gentleness. “Your efficiency has been suffering. You, too, could use a period of respite.”

Bones glances up, catches solemn brown eyes, and grins. “Try another one, Spock,” he scoffs again. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be.” He reaches over and brushes his fingertips over the line of Jim's jaw, the skin fragile pink from regeneration. He can feel Spock still watching him.

“Humans require-–”

One eyebrow wavers upward and he shakes his head. Smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth, he drops his fingertips to Spock’s wrist over his uniform sleeve. “You’re not the only one who loves him, Mr. Spock.”

It is not in their natures to voice such sentiment often. They have each grown to love him slowly, strongly, steadfastly. And for a long time now and for the foreseeable future, they will love him together. This is the truth. And Spock is seldom unsettled by the truth. 

Spock holds his gaze. Nods.

And so there they sit vigil, the merry greens, reds, golds of the lights flickering on Spock’s serene face, their slow breaths and the steady beep of the machines monitoring Jim’s vitals the only sounds in the renewed silence. 

It’s quiet in sickbay, dim again when Spock orders the lights back down, Bones’s tongue too thick with fatigue to protest. His head lolls forward, eyes closing until he can drag them open no longer.

Moth-light fingertips reach across warm darkness, diminishing the distance to brush the hair off his face. Bones seeks the touch blindly, sighing. Contentment that is not his own glows silver in a corner of his consciousness.

He is just awake enough to catch Spock’s soothing timbre before he drops into soft sleep. “Merry Christmas, Doctor McCoy.”


End file.
